Donna secretly smoked cigars. Of course everyone knew cause you can’t just Listerine away that oakey smell. She still remembers the first time she lit up a stogie (that’s what her father called them). The deep burning starting at the back of her throat, moving down to her chest, then a faint sweet aftertaste.
In the beginning it wasn’t the smoking at all but the fancy box with the gold lettering and the velvety case that held each cigar. She figured anything given that much care must be worthwhile.
It was about the only thing she had left of her father. She’d been too young when he died to care about keeping anything so they’d hauled it all down to Goodwill.
They wouldn’t take the booze or the cigar box, so she took both home. Now it was part of her ritual, sitting each evening on the back step, out of sight of the neighbors, smoking and nursing two fingers of Jim Beam.
It was about the only thing she had left of her father. She’d been too young when he died to care about keeping anything so they’d hauled it all down to Goodwill.
They wouldn’t take the booze or the cigar box, so she took both home. Now it was part of her ritual, sitting each evening on the back step, out of sight of the neighbors, smoking and nursing two fingers of Jim Beam.
It was especially nice in the winter, her smoking time. It didn’t get that cold here in LA. She could lean back in the lawn chair and watch for familiar constellations to pass. Inhale, hold, breathe out. Sort of like the meditation class she took one spring at the YWCA. Here she didn’t have to worry about anyone watching, anyone trying to talk her away from her guilty pleasures.
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